If someone were to look at my life through a window, I wonder what they would see. If they’ve been following me on Instagram, they’d probably see a surfer chick, a big smile on her tanned face, eyes twinkling, holding a surfboard taller than her. In the background, white sand and the playful blue sea of Costa da Caparica.
Every artist has a muse, irrespective of gender or, indeed, the situation. So many artists and their muses have been eternalised in the books of history – Francis Bacon and George Dyer, Edouard Manet and Victorine Meurent, Pablo Picasso and Dora Maar (one among his six muses), and Salvador Dali and Gala Diakonova to name a few. Continue reading →
One thing I have realised, after a few years of writing in the hopes of creating that one masterpiece, is that happiness is detrimental to creation. Not the fleeting kind of joy we get from the small pleasures in life, but the all-consuming happiness that arises from contentment. Happiness just does not provide a fertile-enough mind in which ideas can grow. Though happiness is the final goal every person strives to reach, for an artist, the journey is more rewarding than the goal. The minute an artist gets the impression that he is happy, that he is content, he stops. Rather, his creativity takes a long pause to revel in the newly-achieved happiness and puts a full-stop to the process of generating ideas.
It’s strange how I’ve never written anything, anywhere, about books, considering that I practically devour them in a matter of a few hours, at one go. I can never decide what is closer to my heart—books or travel. They keep exchanging places and taking the Numero Uno spot turn by turn. I shouldn’t be surprised though; after all, aren’t books a way of travelling to a different place too?